gray hairs and denial

(via)

I was 22 when I sat in my hairdresser’s chair as she started counting my gray hairs. As in, I had so many that it was fun to count them. As in, more than one or two or three.

Praise the Lord for hair dye, so I don’t have to regularly withstand the emotional toll it takes on a 23-year-old when she remembers she’s already got a head full of grays. A vain 23-year-old who cares way too much about the state of her hair.

At my age? Gray hair is just a sign of bad genes {thanks Mom & Dad!}—or so I tell myself. Which is why I fully accept the denial I have cloaked myself in and years of bi-monthly trips to the salon.

As I was mulling over my gray hairs, I realized I hold onto the defense mechanism called denial just a little bit in other areas of my life as well….

• Jeans from high school that still sit in my closet. Never going to be able to/want to wear those again—get rid of them!
• No, Justin Beiber is not in my top played list on iTunes. My music tastes are much too refined for that.
• And my personal favorite: Winter boots that are a size too small—wore them all last winter because I could not find them in a bigger size and loved them too much to pass them by. Now have two ingrown nails to show for that one.

As they say—Denial: it's not just a river in Egypt. It’s something we all suffer from—or at least I hope I’m not alone on this one.